


scars and holes and broken things

by Sasskarian



Series: A Song of Sea and Stars [3]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Destroy Ending, F/M, Family Feels, No Shepard without Vakarian, Post-Reaper War, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Shepard Survives, a year in the life, and grunt and wrex do some heavy lifting krogan style, and hackett tries to learn about relaxing, and hannah the doting mother in law laughs at everyone, and shepard almost gives up the will to live, and we see some hannah being a badass and helping restore london, garrus pines on the long trip back to earth, in which we see some key characters struggling to survive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasskarian/pseuds/Sasskarian
Summary: The year following the end of the Reaper war. What happened to the crew of the Normandy? Who survived the final push to the Citadel in London? Humanity is trying to rebuild, the galaxy is trying to heal, and missing people are still being accounted for.





	1. Garrus: empty photo frame

**Normandy SR-2 | Nearing Serpent Nebula | Outer Council Space | Easter Sunday, March 25, 2187|**

*******

The crew is whispering again. What’s left of them, anyway. They whisper in the halls, in the mess, on the bridge; conversation trails off when his ghost walks through. He doesn’t care what they say about him. He hasn’t slept more than his body demands in weeks and he tries to save as many dextro rations as he can for Tali, to keep her immune system from destroying itself. His armor hangs loose on his frame and despite the damage of it, he rarely removes it. He hates the way he can feel himself withering, and his one pair of civvies makes the wasting that much more obvious.

Everyone knows he is in bad shape, but only he and Chakwas know just how bad. He means to keep it that way.

“Garrus, she wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself.”

He says nothing. Stares at the floor. Not so long ago, the same floor had been covered with his blood, bright blue against the tile. _You’ve got to stop taking shots to that pretty face, darling,_ the doctor had all but crooned at him then, as Liara and Tali had held his jerking body still. He’d almost lost his leg, shattered by the exploding Mako a damn Reaper had dropped on him, and his scarred mandible had new burns from the heat of the pavement exploding inches from his face.  _Hell, Garrus, you were always ugly_ , Shepard laughs in his ear; her eyes had been worried but a good commander knew when to show fear and when to hide it away.

“Garrus?”

 _Slap some face paint on there and no one will even notice._ Spirits but he needed her.

“I hear you, doc,” he croaked; his voice was rusty and tired, every word dragged from both larynxes with the greatest effort.

“You might hear me, but you’re not listening,” Chakwas retorted. “You’ve dropped weight you can’t afford to lose, your plates are dull and flaking, and--” she tilted his face up—“your eyes are sunken.”

Chakwas sighed and dropped herself back into her chair, pinning him with a level glare.

“Those are all signs of starvation for Turians, Garrus. And you know as well as I do that if you don’t start getting nutrition, you won’t last the rest of the journey back to Earth,” she said softly. “You wouldn’t put her on the memorial, so I know you’re holding out hope that she’s alive. You’re no use to her dead.”

 _Every fight we’ve ever seen could have been our last,_ he remembered telling her, in those stolen hours before hitting Earth. _Every bullet we’ve ever dodged could have been the one._ She’d smiled at him then, that small, wry smirk that almost always ended in a kiss, and said, _There_ have _been a lot of bullets._

“And this time around, they’re just a little bigger,” he whispered, not sure if he was talking to himself or to Shepard, wherever she was.

Chakwas looked at him, sighed, and tapped something into his chart.

“Let me put it to you this way, Vakarian,” she said, sympathy and fond annoyance pinching her face. Somehow, despite the species difference, it reminded him of when he was young and his mother was healthy. “If you don’t start getting caloric intake, I will sedate you and run a feeding line into your damn stomach until we get to Earth and you can find her and she can yell at you for not taking care of yourself.” The dismissal she gave him was silent; this was how their visits always went lately. She would yell at him for his health, he would think about Shepard, and they'd part ways until someone else prodded her enough to yell at him again.

Garrus stood, waiting for the room to stop spinning. He felt the unsteadiness in his legs for what seemed like the millionth time; the bones still ached, even four months after the blast. _If she were here, she’d probably have punched me by now,_ he thought. _I’d give anything for her to be here to do it._

“Do you think she’s alive?” he asked Chakwas the question he hadn’t dared ask anyone else. The doctor looked at the shelf beside her desk, where three asari brandy bottles sat. Two empty, with photos of Chakwas and Shepard in front of them.

The last one was full, behind an empty photo frame.

“See that bottle there, Garrus?”

He nodded.

“That bottle is for the day Shepard walks back onto this ship. Her ship. What does that tell you?”

“That she died once and all it did was piss her off?” He tries for a laugh, but it comes out broken and half-keening. "I think she's told death itself to fuck right off." Chakwas lays her hand on his shoulder and nods, kind enough to not remind him that she’s right about his health. She is the first person to look him in the eyes in four months with belief instead of pity.

“Hope, Garrus. I do.”


	2. Shepard: promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The burning dragged her from the black, kicking and screaming as pain raced through her.

**Earth | Outside of Paris, France | Ruins of the Citadel | Easter Sunday, March 25, 2187 |**

*******

The burning dragged her from the black, kicking and screaming as pain raced through her.

_She breathed and screamed as she swallowed past a clot of blood. Fire crawled under her skin, through her veins like acid. She was burning alive, weightless and spinning through stars, and dying. She was being swallowed alive by a Maw, just like those poor bastards on Akuze. She was shaking and gasping back on Elysium, each breath coming at the price of another life, another thermal clip. She was--_

Goddamn but she was so tired.

_Things flashed in front of her eyes that made no sense. She couldn’t place them, memories or fantasies or nightmares washing over her, drowning her, too fast to grasp. A swirling galaxy in miniature, tiny exclamation points blinking; she felt nausea climbing up the back of her throat with each new notice. Blue blood and the sound of claws scrabbling at a rough floor, rage and fear and helplessness stealing her breath. The distinctive crest and curve of a turian’s carapace, a black shadow against soft blue light, and so much love and trust, more than she’d ever thought possible._

Why was she so tired? Words floated up through the depths of her mind. “Come back alive.”

 _Alive. Alive? Hadn’t she done enough? Hadn’t she suffered enough, given enough, bled enough,_ died _enough?_ _Who was this voice to demand another sacrifice from her? She wanted to rest. She wanted to go home, wanted just some goddamn peace and quiet for the first time in months, years, centuries. But she'd promised to try._

She opened her mouth and screamed, ash and rubble and something wet and cold falling between her black lips. The scream kept coming, ripping itself out of her throat like a living thing, full of rage and pain and fear. Blood vessels burst in her throat, gagging her with copper and iron, and the scream finally died, spluttering off into nothing but soft, wet gasping. She hung, limp and bodiless, weightless, as the world resumed its soft noise, her dying nothing but a momentary pause for things.

Distantly, she thought she heard voices, but the siren song of darkness rolled over her in waves.

#

“Why does she look like that, pop?”

“Hush, now. The Alliance is on the way.”

Alliance. That word stirred something in her, something she loves. Something she hates.

_Suits of blue and shining brass buttons. Stars and bars on a shoulder and crisp salutes. Heart filled to bursting with pride. More work, always more work. So many people needing her, clamoring for her. Demanding her attention, her loyalty. She hates that word, the way it burns her tongue, the way it weighs on her back. She hates it the way you can only hate something you once loved with all your heart, with disgust and pain and overwhelming disappointment._

“Do we know who she is, pop?”

“No, son. She’s no one until they can identify her.” Even mostly dead, she can hear the lie in the man’s voice.

_No one. It might be nice to be no one for once._

She drifts back off, her tortured body demanding rest. The last thing her mind conjures for her is a pair of bright blue eyes.

#

“Bloody  _hell_ , Admiral.” The voice that roused her was new and laced with awe.

“Is it her?” This one she knows. A grizzled mouth flashes in her memory-- a smile hard-won, a fresh scar, a beard going gray-- but is gone before she can see more.

_No, I’m no one. She wants to scream, to beg, to plead. She’ll threaten whoever it takes. Please let me be no one. Please._

“It’s a perfect match. Unless we have another clone situation on our hands…” The voices hesitated, lowered. There was reverence and fear in them. “That’s her. She really did it.”

“How long ago was she found?” The older one barks and a part of her mind scrambles in response to that tone.

_Upright and on your feet, Marine! Atten-hut!_

She curses her body that won’t move, won’t respond, won’t stand and salute. The rest of her cowers in a corner of her mind, drawing the darkness further down around herself. She spins herself an exhausted cocoon of haunting blue eyes and a distinct scent that speaks to her of home, gun oil and hot sand and cooling metal. There is something there, something about that memory, something that makes her want to fight, to grab on to survival with both hands and keep her promise.

_But who can keep a promise that wasn’t possible to keep? I gave him the truth. He won’t be waiting. I’m dead. Again._

“Two weeks, give or take. Bunch of salvagers outside of Paris found the three of them.”

 _Three? Who is three?_ _She remembers a split second—eyes filled with cybernetics, rolling and half-mad, maybe all mad. Blue lightning streaking down her arms like a wildfire and a cry of rage, of grief, ripping through her. He falls and she falls with him, battered legs giving out now that her useful emotions have been spent—_

“Major, arrange for transport back to Lond--”

_— dark blood on darker skin, her pale fingers closing eyelids. Tears running down her face as she looked out over everything, every wound, every burn, every scar, screaming at her. The names of the people she’s lost—the people she’s sacrificed—weighing on her, a hundred pounds each. A voice in her ear saying it’s not working, asking her for one last miracle—_

“Doctor, make sure she stays with us! We’re not losing her again!”

A new voice responds with an immediate, “Yes, sir!”

 _She sighs, rolls over in her cocoon, burying herself inside that flanging voice ringing in her head._ Alive _. The burning is gone, replaced by cold and numbness, spreading down through her chest._ Alive. _She can’t tell which is better. For better or worse. Richer or poorer. Maybe he really is still waiting._

_She’s alive, after all. She held up her end of the bargain._

_A delirious giggle twines its way down her ribs, filling in the aching gaps and broken bits with half-remembered sensations and the promise of_ maybe _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with much pain and not some disappointment, Shepard is alive.


	3. Hannah Shepard: bad news is our business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anyone had told Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard that her duties would consist of washing dishes and laundry by hand, she might have laughed at them.

**Earth | London, UK | Wednesday, April 11, 2187 |**

*******

If anyone had told Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard that her duties would consist of washing dishes and laundry by hand, she might have laughed at them. First at the assumption that a Rear Admiral would have had time to do so—she’d peeked at Steven’s schedule enough times before his promotion to give herself an idea of exactly how little time an Admiral of any sort had—and second for the assumption that doing domestic labor would have bothered her.

As the younger sister of a twin, a biotic, and the mostly-single mother of a biotic daughter, Hannah was very used to cleaning things up herself. Her sister had died in the First Contact war, but the twenty-odd years prior to that had usually seen Hannah scrubbing up whatever messes the newly-minted Vanguard had dragged in. Just her luck that her daughter had turned out to have that same fearless-- and messy-- Vanguard nature. Birthdays, especially had been--  

 _Don’t think about that,_ she told herself firmly, her eyes burning from more than the bleach. _Lizzie has been dead for thirty years and Iolana…_

“Han?”

“Morning, XO Borna,” she replied, brushing a strand of wet hair away from her face. Though it was barely past 0700, the humidity and steam inside the laundry building had already built to stifling levels. That mysterious red blast from the Crucible had killed or deactivated the Reapers, but had also knocked out most technology for a while. While they were repairing things as they could, the field hospitals in the area never had enough clean bandages and sheets, even with the three fully repaired laundromats in the city.

Hence the bleach-filled tubs and rotating laundry teams scrubbing by hand.

“Han, we’ve been friends for years, you can drop the title now that we don’t, you know, have a ship anymore,” Borna said wryly. “I came as fast as I could. There’s a comm message for you, from Hackett.”

“Steven?” Hannah demanded, dropping an armload of bandages. She followed on the heels of her former XO, thoughts chasing each other round her head as they ran through the shattered city. Since that blast, comms had been completely defunct until a month prior, when some semblance of their civilization had been repaired. Most vehicles were up and running, barring some of the newer models from the past year, and there were repairs being made on the most necessary ships.

As they sprinted to the other end of the camp—which was becoming less like a temporary camp and more like a village—Hannah could see through the windows to the occupants of some of the buildings.

She could add two more things to the ‘if someone had told me’ list: working with Rachni and working with Geth.

The insectoid workers still sent shivers up her spine, if she were honest with herself. She could hear them at night, their buzzing and humming echoing softly over the city like a song. Geth were easier to handle, somehow.

The only Geth that were still fully functional were the older machines, the first ten generations or so, before the Reaper-connected upgrades had begun. She’d talked to a few of them, stiffly at first, then more easily. Each Geth was an individual, citing someone or something named Legion, and each had a specialized task to help with. They could access all previous files in the Consensus, though the—Hannah couldn’t stop a snort at her daughter’s word—‘Reaperized’ Geth were no longer functional, and that information was proving to be a surprising help with restoring their technology.

A team comprised of three Geth Primes and three Rachni workers had embarked at just-past-FTL speeds a month prior to try and repair the Relay for Sol. The reports trickling in indicated surprising and encouraging progress. There were teams repairing comm buoys, medical stations, the extranet. And there was one team, grudgingly allowed, that was increasing Geth numbers by repairing broken and destroyed units. The Geth assured the survivors of London that the Reaper codes were all but gone, though their individuality remained.

_"We'll see about that," Hackett had said privately, before signing off on the reconstruction. "The last thing we can afford right now is another war. There will be monitors in place."_

_“We can’t have Earth turning into the next Rannoch,” Hannah had agreed, sliding him a glass of whiskey. “Anything could break us right now. We’re too vulnerable.”_

#

 _It’s been way too long since I ran,_ Hannah mused to herself as they approached the officially unofficial Alliance London HQ, chests heaving. _I definitely used to be better at this whole soldiering thing._ She straightened, trying for military professional despite her pounding heart and the definite wheeze in her chest reminding her that she was pushing 55. With the average human lifespan being what it was, that should be barely middle-aged but the war had taken decades off of everyone’s lives. Too much loss, too little recovery, and anyone who said 'small victories are the best' clearly hadn't almost lost everything to a galaxy-wide apocalypse.

The two guards at the door gave her crisp salutes as she entered; by the time she had reached the fourth floor— _who designed these damn narrow staircases? Why hadn’t the damn Geth repaired the damn elevators before now?_ —she was exhausted, panting, and infuriatingly sick of being saluted and ‘Ma’am’ed at. The ache in her chest was offset by the reminder that she’d come within a hair’s reach of shattering both patellae when her ship had landed abruptly—she refused to use the word ‘crashed;’ crashes were for untalented pilots and stock markets— on the outskirts of London after the Crucible had fired. _Gonna pay for that later._

As she stepped towards the flickering terminal, there was a bitter taste in the back of her throat. She and Steven were friends—had been for years—but she was afraid to hope that this was going to be anything other than bad news. _Bad news is our business these days. I finally understand Kahele’s reasons for retiring to the islands. Some days, I wish I'd stayed when he'd asked me to._

“Hannah,” Hackett’s image said; the delay between his voice and his image moving was long enough to be unnerving, but Hannah still smiled. Genuine relief at hearing his voice flooded her and she gripped the edges of the terminal with bloodless knuckles. It had been a week since he'd departed for the European mainland, and she had already begun to miss him  

“Steven,” she choked. Tears welled up in her eyes and if he saw them through the grainy connection, he gave no indication; she was grateful for that Hackett stoicism for the first time since the _Kilimanjaro._ “It’s damn good to see you.”

“Major Coats and I are en route back to London. It’s been a hell of a trip, Han,” Hackett said, some of the exhaustion of the last months seeping through his voice. “But we have—cove—"

"Steven?" His image started to blur. "Steven!"

"--mira—mand—nah?” The comm sputtered and she was left with the faint blue emitters sparking out with an acrid smell. The startled comm tech leapt for the console, punching in strings of code. The machine gave a shiver and a distorted version of Hackett's face appeared before there was a final spark; oily black smoke poured from the hologram emitters.

“God _dammit_!” Her fist slammed the terminal once, twice, a third time, before Borna caught her wrist, murmuring something in a language she didn’t understand but took the anger from her shoulders. "Goddammit," she murmured again, staring out at the city skyline as if she could transport them back through sheer willpower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I'm evil. I can't resist putting my characters in terrible, heartrending positions. And on Shepard's birthday, too. I'll show myself out.


	4. Hackett: little gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hackett chose not to say anything to that, but let his shoulder brush hers casually; she jerked the first time, but the second, she brushed the back of her hand against his with a sigh. _Little gestures that keep us human behind these uniforms._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite fond of this chapter and the next. Hackett's a hard man to pin down. I hope I did him justice.

**Earth | London, UK | Alliance London HQ | Sunday, April 22, 2187 |**

***

Steven Hackett stood, parade rest still coming easy to his old bones while he waited.

After the comm buoy failure earlier in the month, and when no half-hysterical messages about their delay had been relayed to him or Coats, he assumed that Hannah—he had a hard time thinking of her as Shepard, after so many years spent calling her daughter the same—hadn’t gotten the full context of his call. On second thought, which was rare enough for Hackett, he found himself glad that the call had dropped. Extranet and communicational security was a joke until they had their protocols back in place, and what he’d been about to reveal was of the highest security. Exhaustion had a way of numbing even the most vigilant mind and these days, everyone was exhausted.

Still, Steven found himself wondering.

His old friend would need some time to recover from the shock he was about to drop on her; Hannah Shepard may have had a heart of steel with few chinks, but what chinks existed led directly to the core. He’d seen her cry precisely four times in twenty years; each time, her daughter had been involved in some way, and each time, she’d worn her pride and sorrow in equal measures. If Steven had been a betting man, he would have laid money on his surprise marking a fifth.

He felt the beginnings of a smile then schooled his face back into the ‘Hackett mask’ Anderson had once told him he wore on duty. _Ah, David. That’s a scar to deal with another day._

“She’s here, Admiral,” Coats reported, snapping to attention. The London-born Major had been invaluable, as one of the few remaining members of Ground Team Hammer, and though Hackett knew the Major could have had any assignment in or out of London for his service during the Battle of the Citadel, he’d chosen to stay on with Hackett. The man had crawled through broken buildings and corpses in London, slogged through muddy, steaming fields in France, and currently sat within a hundred feet of the biggest secret on Earth. All of this without question or complaint. All for a woman he'd known a few brief hours before she saved the galaxy.

 _Shepard loyalty can do that to a person,_ he thought to himself, watching Hannah step through the door. Her uniform, though worn, was pressed, her ribbons of service straight. The gold-embroidered bars on her shoulder had been lovingly brushed and, despite their missing threads, spoke of the immeasurable respect she commanded, both from her soldiers and from Hackett himself. When she looked him in the eye, he let the mask slip for a brief moment—enough to give her the smallest beginnings of a smile—and he stepped forward, accepting her salute and then clapping her on the shoulder.

“Coats, you’re welcome to leave, if you like,” Hackett offered. He was unsurprised when the Major saluted and replied, “With respect, Admiral, I’d like to be here for this.” Hackett simply nodded, fully aware of how a chance meeting could change a life.

_Shepard loyalty indeed._

“Rear Admiral Shepard,” Hackett said, keying in the code to the first set of doors guarding their little secret, “once we get where we’re going, you have my utmost permission to set aside your title for however long you are in the room.”

Hannah quirked a silvering brow at him; the smile Hackett felt itching his face almost broke, then, at that look. It was almost exactly the same way that the Commander had looked at him before the world had ended, that ‘what the hell are you up to?’ imperialism that stopped just shy of an order for information.

“Hackett, you’re worrying me,” she finally replied. He could read those bright gray eyes as easily today as he had for the past twenty years. _She’s actually worried._ Hackett chose not to say anything to that, but let his shoulder brush hers casually; she jerked the first time, but the second, she brushed the back of her hand against his with a sigh. _Little gestures that keep us human behind these uniforms_.

They stepped through the second door, the angle of the floor slanting up.

By the time they’d crossed the fifth door, and were standing outside the sixth, he could feel the smile burning to get out again. If the two of them hadn’t been trailed by Coats—and it wouldn’t start another circulation of terrible rumors—he might have indulged himself and done something for amusement, like covering her eyes. The surprise wasn’t perfect, was in terrible shape, in fact, but he suspected it would still be the best news of Hannah Shepard’s life. And while amusement-- or playfulness-- had been low on his list of priorities for most of his career, life as you know it ending tended to remind you of all the little gestures you forgot to do along the way.

 _Like smiling, laughing, and cherishing your friends while you have them._ He turned to her, trying to steel his face. “We’re here. What you’re about to see cannot go farther than this building. This is a secret of the utmost importance, and why Coats and I were called to France.” He pressed his palm against the scanner.

“Biological confirmation, Steven?” Hannah broke the professionalism briefly, her brows furrowed in confusion. “I thought that system was farther down on the repair priority list.”

“I had this one specifically coded,” he admitted, allowing the jury-rigged door to read his palm. “There were a couple of quarians I caught scouting too close to the Geth encampment, and instead of reprimanding them, I had them set this up and gave them assignments with the repair teams.” The door gave a warbling beep and he saw the green flash light up the two faces in front of him. “It will only recognize three people. Anyone other than you or me— or the third, when they arrive— will have to be escorted by one of us until we have a grip on the situation.”

Hannah flicked her eyes to Coats in a silent question. Hackett shook his head very slightly, allowing himself the tiniest quirk of lips. The door slid open and he stepped backwards, allowing her entry to the stark room. For being housed in a half-decimated London high-rise, it was remarkably clean. The walls were free of fingerprints, soot, or gunfire, the tiles were meticulously swept, and the windows were open with the privacy screens engaged, providing fresh air but not allowing anyone to see in. And nestled against the wall, next to a small, unevenly tilted desk, connected to a medical machine that hadn't functioned before the trip to France, was an occupied bed.

He saw the moment recognition hit.

Hannah’s whole body gave a tremble, her slight frame swaying as she took a step forward. Her face crumpled, filled with raw emotion, and the tears he’d expected slid down her cheeks. A hand clapped over her mouth, trying to stifle the disbelieving laugh as the woman on the bed coughed and weakly raised a scarred arm.

“Hey, mom,” Shepard whispered, before Hannah knelt beside her daughter, shoulders shaking as she cried. “Think I’m ready to retire now.”

Hackett caught Shepard’s eye and the smile he’d been holding back for days finally broke through.


	5. Shepard: hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I can see al-Jilani’s headline now,_ Shepard thought, furious with herself, her body, the universe in general. Most of all, the goddamn Reapers. _Legendary Commander Shepard, reduced to a puking invalid. Story at eleven._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title chapter!

**Earth | London, UK | Alliance HQ | Thursday, July 26, 2187 |**

***

Everything exhausted her these days: breathing, moving, physical therapy. Even eating or drinking, let alone the fact she could barely get to a bathroom by herself.

It was infuriating.

Shepard rubbed at her chest, feeling the burn in her lungs. While she’d slept away most of the last months, technicians and doctors and who knew what else had worked to keep her body from failing on her. There were scars covering her arms from the fingertip to her elbows, long, swirling swaths of burnt tissue. _If Miranda could see me now,_ she thought, a wry twist on her mouth, _she’d fire every one of them and then do it all herself._ Across her chest, there were pits and burns from rubble and glass landing on her and melting through her cracked armor as pieces of the Citadel plummeted through the atmosphere and broke apart across several countries.

_The only reason I didn’t burn up with it was the sheer mass of the station._

She’d been caught between two pillars, almost crushed, but in a pocket of air. Even half-dead, she’d been able to muster a biotic shield to cover the small area of herself exposed at least some of the time. Whatever shielding the Catalyst had been equipped with had helped protect her from the radiation and heat of atmospheric reentry. By the time she’d blacked out from pain, the Citadel was beginning to crash into the Earth, plowing long, deep gouges that had steamed and burned for days.

 _My planet is as scarred as I am, now,_ she thought, feeling the large area above her right breast, where her one remaining dogtag had partially melted. _Scars and holes and broken things._

“Honey, you’re awake,” her mother murmured, reaching out to brush the short strands of her hair. Shepard flinched, the newly healed scalp still sensitive; when she’d first been found in France, what had remained of her hair had been fused with her skin. It had taken three surgeries and a lab-grown skin patch to heal enough for the short, downy inch of hair she now sported.

“Sorry,” she whispered, catching her mother’s hand with hers in apology. “Just sensitive.”

“It’s okay, baby,” Hannah smiled, a tear spilling over her cheek. That was another thing that happened a lot these days. Visits usually ended in one or both of them crying. “I heard from your dad yesterday.”

Shepard allowed Hannah to hand her a glass of water, hating the way it shook in her hand as she took a sip. If she didn’t know how much it would hurt the places on her that were more machine than human, she might have flopped back against the pillow to burn off some of her frustration. Instead, she lowered herself carefully, feeling the stretch of the synthetic skinweave that still needed calibrations to mimic living flesh, resenting her body’s rebellion at doing anything other than sleeping.

 _Miranda always encouraged me to sleep. Said it was my body trying to heal._ She grimaced, flexing her fingers, missing her biotics more than she thought possible. _I don’t remember feeling half this bad when I woke up on Lazarus Station. At least then, I had something to shoot._

“I know I've told you every time I've seen you, but we're so proud of you, Io.” Hannah hesitated, biting her lip as she flicked through a datapad with a buzz that grated on Shepard's ears. _I could probably fix that stupid thing if they’d let me work_. "Steven allowed me to tell him about you, as many details as I could. He started crying right there on the comm."

 _Dad’s alive. That’s good. The Reapers must not have had time to hit the islands._ Half-remembered days of playing on the beach when she was small, where her father tossed her up in the air and called her his little hawk, danced through her mind. They were happier days, simpler, where being a good daughter and learning her heritage had been her biggest worries. She could almost taste the salt of the Pacific on her tongue, see that sparkling expanse stretched out—

“And we’re having some luck with the Relays, finally. Charon and Arcturus are both up and running. As soon as we confirm safe arrival on the other side, Horsehead and Exodus will be next,” Hannah kept talking, reading from a new report. “There’s a team headed out to Serpent and Annos Basin now and—oh.”

“What?” Shepard wearily cracked open her eyes, not remembering closing them. Her mother’s shocked expression paled further as a second tinny chime came from the datapad. “Mom?”

“…there’s an inbound ship. The relay team passed it and,” she whispered, wide eyes meeting Shepard’s. “Iolana, they’re saying it’s the Normandy.”

“Nor—” Shepard swung herself out of bed, the pain in her burns and new prosthetic leg forgotten until she fell to the floor, hissing as her nerves danced and jangled all the way up her spine. Hannah dropped the datapad on the floor, ignoring the sickening crack the omni-plast made as it fitzed out, and grabbed her good arm. She pulled Shepard up, taking most of her weight as she shook and shivered and tried not to throw up all over the floor again.

 _I can see al-Jilani’s headline now,_ Shepard thought, furious with herself, her body, the universe in general. Most of all, the goddamn Reapers. _Legendary Commander Shepard, reduced to a puking invalid. Story at eleven._

Hannah gently sheered her back to the bed, even as she glared and wheezed. “Take it easy, Io. They’re not going to arrive for a while yet. Comm buoys are up and running for this sector, but they—the ship is going pre-relay speeds.”

“Well, have someone fucking hail them, then!” Shepard snapped, seething as she and her injuries fought for control over her body. _I need to know. I need to know I didn’t fight for nothing._ “Waggle the wings! Stick some signs in the window. Something!”

Hannah rolled her eyes, stepping back and pinning her daughter with the same look that had quelled her as a rebellious teenager; irritatingly, it still worked. “They tried. No one can get a comm into the ship. QEC's probably shot all to hell from the Crucible.”

Shepard deflated a bit, and hid her shaking hands in the edges of her hospital gown. “When?” Dizziness and nausea washed over her, and while she knew it could peel the lining on her stomach, Shepard would have killed someone for a damn cup of coffee. “When is my ship coming?”

_When is my heart coming? Is he even still alive?_

“At their current speed, it could be as late as August or September.”

“So long?” she whispered, hating the broken quality of her voice. Iolana Shepard had built herself into someone who didn’t cry, and damned if she’d let almost dying a second time turn her into a weakling any longer. “I’m tired of therapy and tutting doctors and I—I want to go _home._ ” _Or not._

"You will." Hannah rubbed her good knee with one hand, like she when there had been a childhood scrape or restless night from the pain of manifesting biotics. When Shepard looked up, her mother’s eyes held far too much knowledge and a tiny hint of amusement. “He’s out there, Io. I know it.”

 _Home isn’t always a place, Io,_ her mother had said to her right before she headed to that fatal Terminus mission. _Sometimes, it’s a person. I’d like that for you, for you to find a real home._

#

_“Garrus, you can’t just answer my calls!” Shepard sputtered, laughing as she tried to snatch the datapad away and knocked over the half-empty bottle of dual-chirality wine. “It could be Hackett or Anderson! What the hell would they think about my Reaper Advisor answering my personal comm in the middle of the night?”_

_Garrus flicked a grin at her, holding the ‘pad higher with a snicker. “Lucky bastard of a turian?” He laughed as she lunged again, swearing when she tripped over their hastily-shed armor. “Besides, Shepard, we both know that Anderson and Hackett only call the War Room and—” He looked down at the incoming call and she watched first horror then amusement roll over his face._

_With a wheeze, he shoved the datapad at her so quickly, she barely had time to blink before he flung himself on the bed, out of sight as much as possible. “It’s your mother.”_

_“Wha—Shit, Garrus!” Shepard shoved her hair back, very aware of the spot on her neck bruising from his mouth. Hurriedly, she sat at her desk and took two deep breaths to steady herself before hitting Accept. “Hi, mom!” Too late to do anything about it, Shepard noticed that her hair was loose and tangled and there was a definite flush to her skin; there was no mistaking that she looked freshly fucked._

_Hannah Shepard’s eyes narrowed the way they had twenty years ago when Shepard was late coming home from a night out. “Did I call at a bad time?”_

_“Not at all!” Shepard smiled, grabbing blindly for something to throw at the turian trying to stifle his laughter into a pillow. Her hand lit on one of her tubes of model glue and she hurled it towards the bed, hearing it thunk off his carapace and hit the wall. “Just, um, getting ready for bed. Yup. That’s all.”_

_“Uh huh.” Hannah’s lips pursed before turning up into a wicked grin. “I’ll try again tomorrow. Have a good night, honey.” She paused for effect and then said, “Good night, Garrus.”_

_“Shit,” he laughed, eyes bright with amusement as he looked up and saw Shepard’s glare. “Um, night, Admiral.”_

_“You are going to_ pay _for that,” Shepard growled as the call disconnected, tossing the ‘pad on her desk and advancing on him. His hands wrapped around her wrists and he pulled her down, rolling so that she was under him._

_“Promises, promises,” he purred, kissing her breathless for the second time that night._

#

“Garrus,” Hannah interrupted Shepard’s wandering mind with a smile, “is as stubborn as you are.” She stood and brushed her knees off, pressing a quick kiss to Shepard’s forehead. “If anyone can survive that kind of journey back to Earth, it’s that turian of yours.”

“Now,” she continued, “I have some work to catch up on, and you have PT in an hour. Try to rest.”

Shepard’s hand darted out and grabbed her mother’s, squeezing. “Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s an update?”

“Io—”

“ _Promise me._ ” That tone of voice had worked on al-Jilani, Allers, and even Anderson a time or two; from her mother, it earned her a raised eyebrow.

“I promise. We’ll even send another shuttle to mark out the path for them, see if we can get any contact.”

“Hackett’ll never agree to that,” Shepard muttered, hiding a yawn; she could add ‘feeling emotions’ to the list of exhausting things now, too. “Waste of resources.”

“You’d be surprised at what Steven will agree to these days,” her mother snorted, fond bemusement written on her face. “Compared to the Hackett we knew before the war, he’s practically skipping. If it weren’t such a terrifying concept, I’d wonder if he’d been replaced with a cheerier clone.”

The last thing Shepard remembered before her therapist woke her up forty minutes later was the soft sound of her mother’s laughter, and a renewed hope that, if there was any justice in the galaxy, maybe her victory wouldn’t be hollow after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be the last chapter of Scars for a short while. I really want to focus on finishing up the next installment of Home and getting that up.


	6. Grunt: more than blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No one’s found her body. Not my teams, anyway.” Grunt closes his eyes. He hadn’t been there when Shepard had gotten to the Citadel. The battle around him had been glorious—brutes being ripped apart, cybernetic fluid covering his claws, the screams of husks as he smashed his way through them—but he regretted not following his Battlemaster. Seeing Shepard ripping enemies apart was almost as good as doing it himself; as the turian had once said, she killed with _style._
> 
> “Shit, kid, you haven’t learned nothing.” Wrex looks at him from the side, a half-smile on his scarred face. “No body to find when she isn’t dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krogan inbound! 
> 
> Please note that I am not a geneticist, so if I get something wrong, I hope it doesn't sound too out of character.

**Earth | London, UK | Wednesday, August 15, 2187 |**

*******

For krogan, fighting wasn’t difficult; it was not fighting that challenged them. Which is how Urdnot Grunt, leader of Aralakh Company, friend to Urdnot Wrex, and survivor of the Battle of London, ends up standing over two of his men ready to bash their heads himself. According to one, the other had found a bundle of freeze-dried rations and didn’t want to report them. According to the other, the fight started because he was doing the work while the other gorged. A cracked headplate and a few punches later, they stood in front of him.

“Are you beasts or are you Krogan?” Grunt tries to remember how Shepard could command without raising her voice. His temper eats at him—an insistent, constant companion since he’d seen the Citadel streaking across the sky, burning—but he struggles to tamp it down. He is a leader now, a member of Clan Urdnot, and he can’t afford to act like a child with no self-control. A memory of Shepard rose to his mind—

_Her throat is soft under his fingers. Smooth and warm. Alive. He shakes his head, trying to silence the obnoxious mechanical voice of the Tank. The Tank keeps insisting she is weak, that he should kill her and be done, move on to the next enemy._

_But her eyes tell him a different story._

_One brow—the Tank supplies the name, designated as a poor entry spot to the human skull—arches over eyes as hard and flat as the floor he’d been coughing on a few minutes prior. These are the eyes of a warrior, of someone who has seen battle and made the choices that were a battlemaster’s glory and burden. Grunt finds a thread of respect for the human, completely unimpressed—and unafraid—by him._

_Then she smirks at him, the scarred side of her mouth turning up, and he feels the barrel of a gun press into his ribs. The angle of her shot isn’t perfect—it is unlikely to reach his spine—but the Tank urgently tells him that if she penetrates his skin, the bullet will ricochet off of his dense ribcage and cause immense pain and damage. He stood the possibility of losing at least a heart and a couple of lungs, and that would be if he were lucky._

_“Ha!” He can’t help but laugh. This is the first solid proof he has that Okeer—and the Tank—can be wrong. Weak, indeed. “Offer one hand but arm the other.”_

Neither of the recruits answer him, and Grunt looms over them, his arms crossed. Shepard had been good at looming and glowering, for all that she’d been smaller than most of the crew; the turian had once said that Shepard had mastered the art of looking down her nose at someone even when she was shorter than they were. A brief pain jabs his hearts, bittersweet, at the thought of her. Of both of them, if he’s honest with himself.

“You. Are. Krogan,” he growls, cuffing both of them. “We have a job to do and if you two don’t have the quads for it, then I’ll hang you out in the wastelands and let the humans practice their shooting.”

“Why should we help squishies?” one of them shot back. “Any loot should be ours!” Grunt’s hold on his temper slips, and he pitches forward, slamming his forehead plate into the recruit’s nose; the blood spraying onto his face as cartilage shattered feels good. Too good. He can feel the call of the rage, the thrill, sing through him and pulls himself back from the edge with effort. Having someone to fight, something to crush under his boot, would be an outlet for the blackness that had begun during the battle months ago.

It was an outlet he can’t afford.

“Don’t forget those _squishies_ saved our quads twice over,” Grunt snarls; he tries to wipe the recruit’s blood from his face but only ends up smearing it. “Get back to work.”

#

“Whose ass did you have to kick into gear today?” Wrex clapped a big hand on Grunt’s shoulder as he hands him a leg of something charred and delicious-smelling. In their section of the city, small fires roar and crackle between the buildings as krogan cook and drink and tell stories. He looks out over them and feels the stirring of something deep in his chest. There were always small scuffles when krogan camped near each other, but by and large, the soldiers left from the Reaper assault are well-behaved. Grunt finds himself thinking that this is how krogan should be. Wrex has the right ideas, even if everyone wants to grumble about them. _We need to be one people again. We’ve spent too long on the infighting._

“Two idiots from the cleanup.” Grunt tossed the rag he’d wiped his face with aside and takes a bite of the meat; he could have sung the praises of the cook, had his mouth not been full. “Pissed off at still being on Earth, now that we have a way home.”

“Knew that’d be trouble,” Wrex rumbles, setting down two flasks of water. Grunt side-eyes them with distaste; water might be important to survival but that doesn’t mean he likes the taste. “Dumbasses are too wrapped up in the past. Can’t see things changing.”

Grunt nods, tempted to gnaw on the bone; instead, he tosses it to one of the dogs skulking around the small krogan encampment. No one is getting enough food— dust, debris, and radiation from the Thannix missiles had settled over London in those first few weeks, contaminating most of the food in the city. It doesn’t affect krogan as much as other species, but it does contribute to the shortages. Supply chains were slow in reestablishing themselves as they struggled to get technology working again.

“Something’s been eating at me,” he finally says, staring into the crackling flames. Someone had found an old metal barrel and filled it full of pieces of broken furniture. Ryncol might have been tasty, but it also serves as a fair accelerant for a bonfire. He watches the fire dance, shooting sparks up into the night, and thinks about dark the sky looked in comparison. _I wonder if the Void is that dark._

“Shepard?” Wrex leans back, watching the fire with him. The scarcity of supplies had shrunk all of their humps, and—without the large bulk Grunt had always seen him with—Wrex looks old for the first time in his memory. _He served with her first,_ Grunt thought. _He knows better than anyone else what I feel._

“No one’s found her body. Not my teams, anyway.” Grunt closes his eyes. He hadn’t been there when Shepard had gotten to the Citadel. The battle around him had been glorious—brutes being ripped apart, cybernetic fluid covering his claws, the screams of husks as he smashed his way through them—but he regretted not following his Battlemaster. Seeing Shepard ripping enemies apart was almost as good as doing it himself; as the turian had once said, she killed with _style_.

“Shit, kid, you haven’t learned nothing.” Wrex looks at him from the side, a half-smile on his scarred face. “No body to find when she isn’t dead.”

“You think? I…” Grunt hesitates, staring at the fire. In his memory, he sees the angry red glow of Shepard’s cybernetic scars, the ones she had born when she hatched him. They had faded as time passed, but the glow of the embers reminds him. “I miss her.” Silence fell between them, interrupted only by the crackling fire and the occasional snort from one of the other krogan. Wrex reached over and cuffed the back of Grunt’s head, earning a rumble; krogan signs of affection were a lot like slightly softer signs of aggression.

“Take it from me, kid. The Void can’t hold Shepard until she wants it to.”

#

This area of the city _stinks._ Grunt, like all krogan, has a high tolerance for bad smells—Tuchanka isn’t exactly a flower garden on Thessia, after all—but the powerful, corrosive chemical hanging heavy in the air smells worse than spoiled Rachni guts. And Grunt, of all krogan living, would know what spoiled Rachni guts smelled like, thanks to the Ravager nest. This chemical burns his nose, and at least one of his lungs feels like it’s on fire.

“Keep walking,” Wrex’s voice booms through the omni-tool. The extranet had finally been released to the rest of the clean-up crews; too many patrols spread too thin meant staying in contact to prevent straggling Reaper forces catching anyone unaware. “It’s that big building two clicks away.”

Ugh.

“Why am I the one doing this again?” he grumbles, blinking hard and fast against the fumes.

“Because I’m older,” Wrex’s voice is dry, even through the crackling comms. “And I said.”

Grunt clicks the comm on mute, too tempted to let his mouth run away with him. Wrex might have been the de facto leader of the krogan stuck on Earth, but he is short-tempered and stuck in his ways, and comfortable ordering people around. Even friends. And he has a point, Grunt can grudgingly admit. If the soldiers causing trouble didn’t get something they could channel their anger into, it would leak out into the others. Resentment and exhaustion were breeding in his men and it would only take the right spark at the wrong time to turn cautious allies into enemies again. Neither the humans nor the krogan can fight another war yet.

He studies his surroundings as he walks. For the first time in years, he hears the mechanical voice of the Tank, telling him about human architecture. The Tank is quieter than it had been in the past, as if it had been subdued and drowned out by Shepard and her mate; though it still spits out nothing but clinical information and things relating to battle, Grunt doesn’t mind the company in his head. It at least gives him something to focus on that isn’t the sense of loss that makes him feel very un-krogan.

The Tank had told him long ago that krogan don’t mourn the dead, not the way other sentient species do. Death—the Void—wasn’t something to be feared. It was the respite from a life of war and pain, the krogan existence. One of the old-timers Grunt had met in his brief time on Tuchanka had likened it to going to sleep at the end of a very long shift; after a while, it became something to look forward to. Death was only mourned if it were wasted, like with the stillborn from the genophage. An adult’s death didn’t mean the same thing.

A young warrior’s death meant he had died doing what krogan had been born to do: fight. And if a warrior was old enough to die from body failure, it meant one of two things: they were a very bad soldier, or a very, very good one.

Wrex, he knew, fell into the latter category. Just past five hundred or so, Wrex was hitting middle age for a krogan and had already accomplished more in his lifetime than most of the krogan had since the genophage had begun, and was poised to do even more for their species. He’d put out the call for the clans to come together to fight the Reapers, to receive Mordin’s cure, to become a cohesive species instead of children squabbling and killing each other in useless fighting.

Wrex—and Grunt—hold the same opinion about pointless battles. Shepard had put words to it, but it was a long-standing belief.

#

_“Glory is useless to the dead, Grunt,” she tells him suddenly one night, her side pressed against Garrus as they worked on rifle modifications. The silence of the cargo bay had taken on an odd, meditative quality, with the three of them working on their own projects; it was a comfortable thing, something that they had taken to doing together between missions. “You make sure you’re around to get it.”_

_Grunt looks up from his own shotgun, the Claymore she’d bought for him, to see her staring at him with a strange look in her eye. He’s seen it before, but hasn’t been able to put a name to it. The Tank is suspiciously silent on how to read emotions other than rage and fear. Without looking up, Garrus reaches beside him to run one hand down her thigh._

_“Wrex will take good care of you for me,” she murmurs, eyes glittering in the harsh cargo bay light. Grunt thought the shine might be tears but that couldn’t be; Shepard didn’t cry. “You stick close to him, you got it? He’ll give you a future.”_

_It hits Grunt then. This is her good-bye._

_His battlemaster is leaving, and by her own choice; the Collector fight is over, and it’s time to surrender to the crime she was set up for. They’re on their way to Tuchanka; she hadn’t hidden that from him. He just hadn’t realized he was being offloaded, even though Shepard has been divesting herself of crew members so that she can turn herself into the Alliance. Aratoht weighs heavy on her shoulders, and despite her pain, she still tries to protect them. Hackett had done what he could to warn her while still staying in his narrow definition of honor, had told her that any non-human crew on the Normandy would be arrested along with her. The Batarian Hegemony would have nothing less than the entire Normandy crew on trial if given the chance._

_In her wavering voice, he hears for the first time something that he had already known, if not consciously: she loves him. The Tank in his head sneers a little at that, tells him that love is weakness, but, then again, everything is weakness to the Tank._

_The pain of that takes him by surprise. He’s felt pain before—bullet holes, burns, Collector beams. Even the pain of Harbinger trying to root through his head before the bloodrage had taken him and wiped his mind clear of everything but survival. But this, the knowledge that she loves him and is still leaving, feels like it’s ripping a hole right though his chest. Like claws closing around his hearts, around his lungs; his breath comes harder and faster and he can feel the distant call of the thrill, as if there’s a beast inside of him ready to shake off sleep if it’s needed._

_The closest thing he’s felt to this aching, raw mess in his chest was the first time he’d looked out upon the promised grandeur of Tuchanka and saw nothing but smoldering ruin._

_Grunt tries to think of what to say, of what the next days will bring but fails. Krogan don’t think of the future well; it is part of why they have yet to rise above their devastated planet. Wrex, though, has shaken off the limitations they’ve given themselves. That is why Shepard is sending Grunt to him: with the right teacher, Grunt can help save his race. Part of him understands this, that she is providing for him even now, as her own fate hangs in the balance._

_But the rest of him sees the woman who had given him life, had released him from Okeer’s madness, had found him glorious enemies to fight and powerful weapons to call his own, leaving herself vulnerable. When she goes to Earth, she will have no krannt at her back._

_He swallows a child’s keen, too late for the turian not to hear it—given the way his head whips around to look at Grunt— and simply nods at her, busying his hands with his shotgun again. There is still a gaping wound in his heart, but there is no use in acknowledging it._

_Shepard is the closest thing he will ever have to a mother, and she deserves better than for him to make her parting more difficult._

#

Humans scurry down the narrow streets, out of his way. Their arms are often laded with cloth or containers, and he doesn’t smell an unusual amount of fear, so he set his eyes forward and keeps marching. The two guards at the door nod at him and allow him to pass into the lobby. Grunt is just contemplating whether he hates himself enough to try and squeeze his bulk into the narrow passages that serve as human stairs when the elevator doors ping and two people step out.

Hackett looks the same as he always had, if a bit more gaunt, but the small human woman at his side catches Grunt’s attention. Joy sings through his blood at the sight, while his hearts crow that he knew she hadn’t returned to the Void.

“Shepard!” His feet have already started propelling him towards her by the time the woman turns, one hand going for a sidearm that clearly wasn’t there; her shoulders tense even as she lowers her empty hand. Grunt slows his pace, allowing his eyes to catch up to what his nose has already told him. This is not Shepard.

The woman who stands next to the admiral in what Grunt had learned were called dress blues looks like Shepard, but isn’t her. Her red hair is bright and coppery, where it isn’t silver, and pulled into a severe bun at the base of her neck; Shepard’s was darker and thicker, with what she called ‘curls.’ The face that Shepard’s eyes peer out of is lined and aged, instead of the smooth, faint tan his Battlemaster had. _What is this?_

“Urdnot Grunt,” Hackett said, regaining his composure faster than anyone else in the room; he and the woman are still staring at each other. “Allow me to introduce Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard, the Commander’s mother.”

 _Average breeding age for humans between twenty-five and forty,_ the Tank supplies quietly. Shepard had been in her thirties during the Battle of London, so the woman’s age made sense.

 _Humans in particular often look like one or both parents; product of genetic sequencing._ This voice sounds more like the thin doctor who’d liked to set things on fire. _Likely that mother’s genes are dominant, leading to immense resemblance. Fascinating._

“Sorry,” Grunt says, struggling to keep his disappointment in check. The ache in his chest flares into life again, even as the woman extends her hand out to clasp his in greeting; her grip is strong despite her appearing frailty. _She has Shepard’s hands. Long and small, far too delicate-looking for the work they chose._

“Grunt,” Hannah said. The timber and pitch of her voice is different than Shepard’s, higher and softer on the consonants. It helps him pull himself out of the Tank, out of his memories, and focus on her as a person. “My daughter told me a lot about you. I’m glad to finally see you in person.” There is no sign of the hostility or tension that had marked her before; he must have frightened her by shouting.

 _What did she tell you?_ There is curiosity thrumming in his blood now. He wants to hear the stories Shepard told of him, to know the stories that Hannah has of Shepard before the war turned her hard and cold; surely the woman who’d raised Shepard would have some. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Shepard’s floats across his mind, whispering about duty first _._

Unsure what to say, how to ease the awkwardness between the three of them, Grunt launches into his explanation of why he was sending some men back to Tuchanka. He details the fights that have been breaking out among the krogan. Hackett stands silently, his eyes fixed on Grunt’s and his hands held behind his back. When Grunt pauses to take a breath, the admiral holds up his hand, those keen eyes still piercing; he feels like Hackett can see through his scuffed armor and the hard face to the youngster still inside him.

“Hannah, why don’t you return to the hospital,” the admiral says; despite the mild words, there is a command there with no room for argument. “Grunt and I will go upstairs and work out a schedule.”

The human watches Admiral Shepard walk out before extending a hand before himself, inviting Grunt into the elevator.

#

“What was Iolana Shepard to you, Urdnot Grunt?”

The question takes Grunt by surprise. He considers carefully before answering; even to Wrex, he hasn’t admitted the depth of his attachment to Shepard. A human-- even a respected one like Hackett-- wouldn’t get the confession before his clan leader did.

“She is my Battlemaster,” he replies finally; it is the closest thing he can call Shepard, the highest honor he can give her until she returns. “She released me from my imprisonment and led the fight against the Collectors, then again with the Reapers.”

“What is a battlemaster, in Krogan society?” Hackett frowns, his face thoughtful. “It must anger other krogan to hear of a human one.”

“Screw them,” Grunt rumbles, feeling a rush of pride and pleasure that reminded him of Shepard smashing Uvenk’s face in to defend him. “Shepard is—she was more krogan than they were half the time. At least she had honor.” He pauses, looking over the human. There is something under the relaxed questions: Hackett is looking for a particular answer. “Why do you want to know?”

Hackett is silent for a long moment. “I’m trying to get a sense of who you are,” he says at last. “Shepard trusted you and I want to make sure that I can, as well. There are things being put in motion that Earth may not be ready for yet.”

#

They talk for a long while, in the elevator ride up, and then after, leaning against the wall. Hackett would ask a probing question or two, listening to the answers Grunt would provide, hedging and hinting at things but never giving a clear answer until he's satisfied. He has to admit, the human was smart, and capable of making Grunt feel like he could trust him without actually providing much in the way of information.

“You and your scouts may want to stick around Earth for a while longer,” Hackett says after a long, heavy silence. He faces a window, staring out at London. Grunt wonders what he sees from up here, whether it’s different than what he sees on the streets. London is recovering. Slowly, and heartbreaking at times, but the momentum is there. Survivors did exactly that: survive.

In this, Grunt thinks, humans are like krogan.

“Is that a good idea?” Grunt counters, his arms crossing. “Have you seen a horde of angry krogan and what they can do to a recovering city?”

Hackett turns, and with four small words, shoves a new knife through Grunt’s chest. “The Normandy is inbound.”

A thousand memories—each perfectly clear—unfurls in his mind. The smell of the embryonic fluid, thick and cloying in his nose, his mouth. The way he could smell it for months, even after the floors had been scrubbed clean. A tiny workbench, small and woebegone next to his bulk, and the smell of spent ammunition as Shepard howled in victory after a battle. She’d stalked those hallways until every corner of the ship smelled like her, bore the hallmarks of her life. And her death.

“The Normandy is useless without Shepard,” Grunt growls. He shakes the memories from his head and studies Hackett. The distinct feeling of _test_ is hanging in the air; he is reminded of speaking to the Urdnot shaman at his Rite. “She was its heart and soul.”

Hackett’s lips curled upwards in a small smile. Human expressions are infuriatingly complex to krogan, because their faces move in so many ways, but Grunt thinks this smile is one of approval; Shepard sometimes looked like this when he made a particularly good kill in battle. Or when he’d told her his favorite earth animals were sharks and dinosaurs, and she’d laughed until she doubled over, clutching her sides. It was one of his favorite looks on her, one that cut through the doubts of being tank-bred and reminded him that he was krogan, Urdnot, loved.

Hackett’s approval doesn’t make him feel loved, but it does ease some of his doubts.

#

The place Hackett leads him is small, and the hallway so narrow, the sides of his arms brush the walls. It is claustrophobic and makes his hide crawl, the way the Collector base had. But Hackett walks on, undeterred, past doors and scanners that accept him with small, friendly beeps. When the last door finally opens, Hackett steps back and gestures Grunt inside.

He closes his eyes and tries to listen to what his nose is telling him. He can faintly smell the grass-flower-disinfectant scent that had marked Hannah Shepard in his mind; she had been in the same room not long before she’d left. Hackett smells like paper and something warm and heavy; it reminds Grunt of the teas Liara and Samara used to drink after a battle to calm their nerves. And underneath both of those, there is the scent that had followed him through the streets of London, what Hackett had called bleach and detergent.

The wind—wind? Inside? There must be an open window—shifts and brings a new scent to him, one that has his eyes flying open and a low, rumbling growl building in his chest. His nose has never lied to him before, and his eyes scan the room until they find her. She’s sitting at a small desk with her back to the wall behind her, head pillowed on her arms as she sleeps; there is a half-completed model ship in front of her, which somehow doesn't surprise him at all.

He can see even from where he’s standing that there are new scars and burn marks on her skin. There is more metal in her scent than there had been on the Normandy, but when she turns her face towards him and he sees the purple smudges under her eyes, the growl stops. His mind would not be cruel enough to conjure a hallucination of Shepard so exhausted and worn-thin.

“She was very badly injured after the Catalyst,” Hackett tells him; his voice is soft enough not to disturb the sleeping woman, so he must have known how good krogan ears are. “It took us almost a month to get back to London because her heart kept stopping.”

“You said this was a secret.” Grunt’s voice is as close to a whisper as krogan vocal chords can get. He respects that Hackett doesn’t flinch from the accusation in it, and he sinks to the ground, resting his hump against the wall; he feels like the world has shifted under his feet, righted itself in a vital, desperate way. “Why? She is _alive._ This should be a _celebration_.”

“Agreed. But there are many who blame the entire Reaper war on Shepard.” Hackett sighs, raising his chin; his disapproval is in his voice, but his eyes are soft and fond as he studies Shepard. “Many say that if she’d never been sent after Saren, the Reapers wouldn’t have woken. We both know that's bullshit, but the dissenters are out there."

 _Idiots!_ Grunt wants to howl, to sink his claws into the chests of the liars and fools, those who would demean Shepard’s victory. His battlemaster—his _mother—_ is the only sentient being to defeat them! The first ever victory in hundreds upon thousands of years and it is still not enough for the humans? For the galaxy? That’s fine with Grunt; he and Wrex will be happy to take Shepard to Tuchanka, away from the fools who don’t deserve her. She is krogan in human shape anyway.

So wrapped up in righteous anger, and the relief that she is alive and healing, he barely notices when Hackett turns and closes the door behind him, leaving him to watch over her as he should have during the battle.

#

Shepard makes a small sound, her arms stretching with loud pops as she wakes. Grunt watches her rub the back of her neck, every movement a memory in motion. The way her back curves over the top of her chair, a series of smaller pops sounding, is the same as when she spent long hours doing paperwork. Her hair is shorter now, curling over the tops of her ears as opposed to the thick tail she’d sported before, and her skin is paler. But every small sound and shift of her body reassures Grunt that it is Shepard before him.

She sees him while he is drinking her in, something warm and contented spreading through his hearts, her small human mouth dropping open in surprise.

“Grunt?” Shepard’s voice is low and soft, raspier than he remembers. _Humans don’t have secondary lungs,_ he remembers; the Tank supplies a mostly-ignored stream of what fire and heat can do to internal organs. He bats the voice away impatiently, staring at her. “That you?”

“Wrex was right,” Grunt finds himself saying; it isn't what he'd meant to say but there are so many things crowding his throat, he doesn’t know where to start. The words don’t surprise him—Wrex is often right about a lot of things—but this one thing, this one victory, is the one Grunt is most grateful for. “The Void can’t hold you until you let it.”

“Didn’t damn well stop it from trying,” she mutters, crossing to him and pulling him into her scarred arms. Grunt holds her carefully, aware of how fragile human bodies are in a way that he hadn’t been before; Shepard had seemed immortal, a force so powerful and bright that it drowned out things like physical limits and excessive injuries. Those were for other humans, mundane humans, not for _Shepard._

Up close, though, he can feel the fine tremble of her muscles, and there are places under his hands that don’t quite feel like human skin; the burns on her arms have silvered in most places, but still show how deep the damage went. Grunt sees them and closes his eyes, awed at how much pain humans can take, how much _Shepard_ can take, and vows to find a way to make her happy.

#

_Garrus leans against the large gun, fixing his eyes on Grunt. He doesn’t often come to the battery, but there are only so many times he can bother Mordin or Thane to ask questions. The doctor rarely sleeps and the assassin tells him he must think for himself, but Garrus is often awake when Shepard sleeps, so it’s to Garrus he comes._

_“I do not understand this yet,” Grunt growls, stalking from one side of the battery to the other. “I feel these things and the Tank tells me things and Okeer’s imprint has failed. I exist for battle or for nothing.”_

_“You exist to exist,” Garrus tells him sharply. Grunt turns and studies the turian, scenting something sharp and dangerous; it is a not-quite-angry smell, a protecting smell. “Just because some crazy warlord mixed you up in a tank doesn’t mean you stop being a person. No one can tell you what to do or what to be except you.”_

_It takes a moment for Grunt to realize the turian is protecting him. Or trying to. The Tank rages in his head, screaming at him to prove himself. But for the first time, Grunt finds it easy to shut the voice down. He has proven himself, or Shepard would not tolerate him on her ship. She is Battlemaster, Commander. As long as she finds him worthy, the Tank’s voice doesn’t matter as much._

_“You look… calmer,” Garrus says, folding his arms across his keel. “Care to share?”_

_“Shepard is mighty,” Grunt says. When the turian snorts and nods, he says the words aloud. “She thinks I am worthy?”_

_“Kid, people may do a lot of impossible things for Shepard, but I don’t think there’s anyone living, dead, or undead who could convince her to get rid of you.” Garrus laughs, a two-toned sound that the Tank says should enrage him; Grunt finds it tolerable, and he grins a little. Defying the Tank is becoming fun. “She might be a hardass, but when you’re hers, you’re hers until you die.”_

_Grunt thinks that might be okay with him._

#

When she pulls back to look at him, her small hands brushing his face, there is that glint in her eyes again, the one that had first told Grunt that she loved him. “Your headplate finally fused,” she murmurs, tracing the ridges and changes that mark him as a full adult. “You went and grew up on me.”

“You went and died on me,” he rumbles, regretting the words when she flinches. He gently rests his plate to her forehead, breathing her in. She smells of hospital, of long nights without sleep, of pain and ash and blood. But she also still smells like home, like salt, ozone, coffee, like stories about the sea and the islands that she holds in her heart. “But you came back.”

He remembers Silversun Strip and the angry C-Sec officers, the way she’d bailed him out with laughter dancing in her eyes. When she sits up and brushes at her eyes, a smile stretching her face so wide he can see most of her small, blunt teeth, he thanks the Void that he has a chance to tell her he loves her, too.

"Couldn't leave my boy all alone, could I?" she laughs softly and it sounds like exhaustion and relief. "Even if I am as useless as a pyjack in a tomkah."

"You're my mother," Grunt answers. "Krannt. Practically krogan. And krogan are never useless." Shepard stares at him until he squirms, until he turns his head away from the emotion on her face. _I called her mother._ It is too soon to tell her, too much for her to process, but he can't dishonor her by treating her like glass. From the surprise on her face, he thinks too many people have been doing that already.

"So Victus was right, after all." She smiles to herself, a small, content thing that lights up her face. "He told me that you were mine a long time ago, such as things go cross-species."

"...does this mean I can start calling myself Shepard-bred instead of tank-bred?" Grunt asks with a grin. And just like with the dinosaurs and the sharks and that time he'd almost died trying to give her a flower, she doubles over and wraps her arms around her ribs, laughing. When she rights herself, wheezing and red-faced and _happy_ , she tells him, "Family is more than blood, kiddo," and Grunt knows that things will be okay in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grunt is absolutely Shepard's 800 pound killing machine of a son, and I love their dynamic so, so much.


	7. Garrus: the end of all things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He almost felt alive again. There was just one thing missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some feels, some fluff, and a cameo at the end. Hopefully it's enjoyable!

**Earth | London, UK | Alliance HQ | Thursday, September 21, 2187 |**

***

The first thing Garrus noticed on the descent down to London was how similar the ocean looked to the vast bodies of water on Despoinia. Even down to the shapes in the water, although here on Earth, they were deactivated Reapers and not ships stumbling across Leviathan’s lair. _And there’s nothing shooting us out of the sky,_ he admitted, watching the shuttle that had been side-by-side with the Normandy for two weeks tilt one way, then the other—a standard wing-waggle, a sign of thanks and goodwill. _That’s a nice change._

The second thing he noticed was how different the city looked on this trip. The last time he’d seen London, a perpetual night had fallen, with the Citadel hovering over the city like a sword waiting to swing. The city had been washed in shades of black and gray, the monotony broken only by the occasional fire or report of gunfire. Banshee screams and the dual-toned roars of Brutes had been the gruesome soundtrack and everything around him had been brimming with despair.

But now, he could see over the scarred land where buildings were being repaired, and there were actual people. There were _children_ running through fields of brown and green, laughing as they played. It wasn’t quite the bright, carefree sound of those with nothing to worry about— these children had been touched by war and pain like everyone else— but it was a far better greeting than his first visit. For someone who had only seen the blackness of space for eight months, happy children was a strange sight.

“You should go first,” a voice near his elbow stated. He looked down into Joker’s tired brown eyes; the pilot’s hair had begun to silver at the temples with the strain of the last year, but he still tried for a smile when he noticed Garrus looking. “If anyone can find her, it’s you. And most of the others are still resting.”

“All of us or none of us, Joker,” Garrus replied softly, resting his hand on Joker’s shoulder. He’d come a long way in the last few months. “Go ahead and wake them. Let’s see what we can find out.”

_We made it. For better or worse, we’re back._

#

The Normandy touched down on the edge of the greenest grass Garrus had personally ever seen. There was a large crowd already gathering as the cargo ramp lowered, and he stepped out into the rare London sunlight. Sparks lit across his eyes, having adjusted to nothing but artificial light for most of a year, but the sun was warm on his plates and there was fresh air in his lungs. A cheer went up through the crowd as someone recognized him, called his name.

“That’s the Normandy!” someone shouted, pointing at the ship.

He almost felt alive again. There was just one thing missing. One small, auburn-haired, gray-eyed, tougher-than-nails thing.

Chakwas, Tali, and a few others tentatively accompanied him down the ramp, blinking in the bright light. Someone in the front shouted the Normandy’s name, weeping and laughing at the same time, and he thought he heard a krogan roar of approval from the back. As he looked that direction, he could see about a dozen people running off, presumably to spread the word of their arrival. The shuttle’s crew was disembarking a few hundred feet away, joining the crowd.

“Garrus, this is a lot to handle,” Chakwas murmured in his ear; he felt her hands clench on his upper arm, and knew she wasn’t talking about herself. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Senior officer, technically,” he replied, his voice low and almost steady. The sea of people began to part, making room for someone who brought a hush with them. “Aside from you and Joker, and of us all, I’m—ironically—in the best shape.”

“That _is_ a bit ironic,” Chakwas chuckled; though he was still far too thin, he wasn’t on the brink of starvation anymore, and could at least wear his civilian clothes without looking like a ghost. Next to him, the doctor straightened as the last of the crowd parted to reveal the person who had calmed them.

When Garrus looked up, he wasn't surprised to see the steel blue eyes of Admiral Hackett staring at him. That the old man might not have survived had never crossed Garrus’ mind; Hackett was like Shepard, in that way. You just sort of expected them to be there, solid and eternal. What did surprise him, though, was the subtle cheer on the Admiral’s face— Hackett was many things, but cheery was never a word applied to him outside of sarcasm.

“Vakarian,” the Admiral said, his thin lips twitching into an almost-smile as he clasped Garrus’ forearm with surprising strength. “It is damn good to see you, son.”

 _Son? Did I— did we land in an alternate dimension? Since when does Hackett call anyone son? Since when does Hackett_ smile?

The surreal feel to the day only increased when Hackett wrapped his arm around Garrus’ cowl and started to gently steer him through the crowd; pats on his carapace, hands grabbing at and shaking his, made him wish he’d worn his armor, busted and loose or not. Garrus twisted his head, trying to keep the Normandy in sight, his breathing picking up in panic as he was led away, but Hackett would not be deterred. Chakwas was similarly ambushed by medical personnel carrying kits; one was painted dextro-blue and the turian nurse was clearly making a bee-line for Tali.

“Listen to me, Vakarian,” the Admiral said, his lips barely moving; Garrus jerked his attention back to him. “I’m taking you somewhere safe. I know that right now, that ship is home and safety and everything that being out in the open isn’t, and you can go back after we’ve dealt with some business first if you want.”

“I— what— business?” Garrus rasped, the vice in his chest squeezing as the ship disappeared; he could hear the panic in his subvocals but couldn’t control the sound. “Sir, what—”

Hackett said nothing else, but that semi-smile only grew as they walked through the city.

#

Though the burnt out cars and bodies had been moved, Garrus thought he recognized one of the staging grounds for Team Hammer. Hackett finally stopped moving, catching Garrus by the arm as he almost walked past on autopilot. The admiral opened the door—a futile gesture, as the windows were thrown wide open—and a bitter, burning chemical smell overwhelmed them; Garrus gagged, choking on the thick steam as his already straining lungs fought for air. At his hacking and sputtering, there was an annoyed clucking sound and a familiar voice called, “If you can’t handle the bleach, what the hell are you— oh my _God._ ”

“Look what the varren dragged in,” Hackett said with that sly little grin as he nudged Garrus forward. Noise in the small building ground to a halt as heads turned to look. It had to be some sort of cleaning house, judging by the fabric he could see billowing in the alley; turns out, brute-sized holes made for good—if crude— windows.

“Garrus?” The woman who’d spoken turned to him and his heart leapt into his throat before his mind registered the age difference. The red hair—a truer red than Shepard’s— was silvering, but those Shepard eyes were still sharp. He didn’t have time to see more, because Hannah Shepard flung her small frame at him, her arms wrapping around his cowl as well as they could. He could feel hot tears on his hide and when his brain sparked into action again, he managed an awkward pat on her back. He and Hannah had only met a couple of times while he served with Shepard, but he had walked in on plenty of vidcalls towards the end of the war.

How she recognized him, with the color sapped from his plates, only the barest hint of facial markings, and without armor, he wasn’t sure. But they stood there, surrounded by surreptitiously crying people, for what felt like ages. When Hannah pulled back, her face creased from catches on his too-loose clothes, she beamed at him with delight despite the tear tracks on her face. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the alley at the back; Hackett fell into step behind them, silent and—Garrus thought—pleased.

“There’s something you have to see,” she said, a little breathlessly, dragging him behind her whether he stumbled or not. “Right now. Come on.”

“But— the crew?” For the first time in more than two years, he was tongue-tied. _Shepards seem to have a way of stealing the rug right out from under you_. “The Normandy?”

“I’ll take care of them,” Hackett assured him, arms crossed behind his back. “By now, the physicians are on board checking everyone out, and we have enough food to share. I'll get someone to repair the comms on your ship and patch your omnis to the new channels so you can communicate.”

 _It's not my ship,_ Garrus wanted to yell, his emotions moving far too fast for him to grasp. Confusion, annoyance, exhaustion, fear. And somewhere, underneath it all, a single, glowing thread of hope that was almost completely burnt out.

Helpless and unable to form an excuse, Garrus allowed himself to be led towards the same high-rise where they had planned the last push to assault the Citadel; the last time he had seen it, it had been half-destroyed by Reaper weapons. Now, it gleamed, repaired and guarding over the area with pride.

Two realities collided in his mind as he struggled to reconcile the current state of London with the horrors of that night so many months ago. He could vividly remember the smell of rifle-fire and carnage floating up to them, could remember Wrex booming orders to his men as they waited for the go signal. Turian soldiers of all ranks had sat in the room with him and Victus, talking quietly about their chances, some calling bondmates or children or family to say good-bye.

He remembered the startled silence when Shepard had walked in the room, and the way Victus’ subharmonics turned smug and satisfied. Other soldiers had watched her approach and remove her helmet, before looking away to give them as much privacy as they could. Garrus hadn’t cared what they thought: the person he loved most in the galaxy was standing in front of him, washing everything out with her presence.

#

_She’s nervous._

_Garrus can see it in the faint tremor in her hand, in the too-wide pupil of her eye. Her fingers clench once before they ball up, bang against her thigh a couple of times. Shepard dealt with waiting the way she dealt with everything else she couldn’t control: irritation and a deeply hidden uncertainty. He thinks about making a joke, the same jokes they’ve always made on the brink of death. Old times, walking into hell, meet you at the bar. But the look on her face—the fear that clenches his heart—is suddenly too heavy for that kind of talk. She opens her mouth a few times before speaking, like she’s also lost for words; that surprises him, because his Shepard has never lacked for things to say when it counts._

_“I can’t go out there without_ — _” Her words trail off as he interrupts her with a kiss. Her hair tangles around his talons before one hand lands on her waist and pulls her as close to him as two suits of armor allow. Human hands find his cowl and pull him even closer, her mouth opening beneath his; the taste of coffee and Shepard flooded his senses with a content sigh. After a moment, their kiss turns slow and lazy, a hundred messages floating between them, each saying the same thing—_ I have your back, here at the end of all things. I love you _. They’ve gotten good at this, speaking without words, over the past two years._

_Her knees hit the back of the lopsided desk and he lifts her onto it easily, her boots bracing against his armored spurs as if they have all the time in the galaxy. To his distant surprise, none of the soldiers give any signs of disapproval. If anything, that pleased, proud hum that had started with Victus grew in volume as his men cheered in their own exhausted way. When they pull apart to breathe, her eyes are glassy and heated, some of their old fire returned. Two spots of color burn on her cheeks when she notices the approval surrounding them, but then she smirks—a tiny, fleeting thing that makes him kiss her again—and fumbles with the clasp around her neck. He watches as she removed the chain he’s never seen her without and fights with the metal tags, cursing twice before she frees one and presses it into his palm._

_“Just in case,” she murmurs, the mask of the Commander beginning to settle back over her face. He glances down, wondering if it meant what he thought it meant; she catches the look and nods. “Old human marine tradition, giving someone you love a tag. It’s not quite a wedding ring, but…”_

_“This is_ not _a good-bye,” he whispers fiercely, slipping the dogtag into the back of his glove, then framing her face in his hands. “I’m not giving you up, not now. I’ll be waiting for you. That’s a promise.”_

_She pulls his forehead down to hers, hands linked behind his fringe; her body trembles against him and he has a pang of regret that she’s going out there like this. It’s been too long since she’s had food, or sleep, let alone actual rest. But this is it. This is their last chance, a chance to cancel the apocalypse she’d warned everyone about for years. Mundane things like eating or sleep were limited to what was strictly needed for survival._

_“Forgive the insubordination, but,” Garrus tilted her face, brushing his mouth across hers. Long practice had made kissing easy for the two of them, despite the challenge of soft lips and firmer mouth plates. “Your boyfriend has an order for you.”_

_“Oh?” Her fingers ghost across his mandibles, the sheer love in her eyes almost taking his breath away. “And what’s that,_ carissime?” _The old turian endearment she must have picked up from him makes his eyes sting._

_“Come back alive.” She sags in his arms slightly; they both know it’s a promise she can’t make, but oh, how he wants her to try. “It’d be an awfully empty galaxy without you.”_

_"I’ll try,” she whispers, her fingers brushing his visor; he still carries her first token of love there, a piece of paper so worn and faded it was almost illegible, rolled up like a secret and tucked away in the casing. He’d shown it to her right before she’d sent him to Palaven, in case she still had any doubts about what they were._

_“Shepard…” She looks at him then, those gray eyes seeing every scar, every fracture. He sees them in her face, too. When she first saw him, standing on the steps of the Council Tower, she’d made a decision that he’s always been too nervous to ask her about. Here, at the end of the world, he can see the answer in her face. Acceptance, approval, and now, love. He closes his eyes and brushes his forehead plates against hers, marking her with his scent one last time. He starts to speak, but she lifts her fingers and shushes him with a small smile._

_“I already know.” She slides to the floor and cocks an eyebrow at him, a hint of challenge in the tilt of her mouth. “See you on the ground?"_

_As if there’s any other answer he would ever give._

_"If you're walking into hell, you know I'm right behind you."_

_As she makes her way through the soldiers, his breath hitches when each and every one of them gives her a full salute, usually reserved for senior members of the Hierarchy. The tension in her neck tells him she wants to duck, to defer the praise and faith they’re putting in her—somehow, after all their battles, Shepard still thinks of herself as just one person, nothing special. But she’s been a soldier and commander for too long to insult their offer, and she strides through the door with her head held high and her shoulders squared._

_It isn’t lost on him that it’s almost the exact same posture she’d had when he saw her for the first time._ How much a few years can change, _he thinks._

_Pride and terror war make his gizzard twist itself into knots as the doors close behind her, cutting her off from his view. Words unspoken hang heavy in his subvocals, things he should have said to her long ago. He whispers a plea to the Spirits that he’ll have the chance after the war, finger brushing over the tag like a prayer, as Victus claps him on the shoulder in sympathy. There’s too much understanding in the Primarch’s eyes, so Garrus turns and opens a comm to Wrex to talk about last minute supplies._

#

By the time Garrus returned to the present, Hannah had led him through most of the building and they were making their way towards the top. While he hadn’t had much experience with the woman, he’d thought that Shepard had gotten her stoicism from somewhere and from the stories she’d told him about her father, it hadn’t been him. The Hannah Shepard he’d met at formal functions, who’d gently called him out on the vidcalls he’d been present for, had been warm but reserved. Formality was something she’d worn well, as befitted her rank and experience.

The Hannah Shepard in front of him all but bounced with excitement as she nodded at a door towards the end of the hallway and pulled him closer, impatiently waving at small, silver consoles along the wall. Formality appeared to be nowhere in sight.

“You’ll have to activate the lock,” she said in a rush, pointing to another small console beside the door. “There’s a default account for you but you’ll need to key it to your biology. Only Steven and I have the other accesses. Still top secret for now.” Small hands pressed against his back and gave him a gentle shove.

 _Just as pushy as Shepard,_ he mused with a pang. _Seems she got it honestly._

#

“State your name,” the lock’s VI commanded as Garrus approached.

“Uh. Garrus Vakarian?”

Holographic gears appeared, the universal sign that something was processing. He was struck by how technological it was; he’d expected there to be little to no functioning tech after that blast had all but crippled the Normandy and sent them crashing down to Zorya. It had taken a solid month of repairs, Ken and Gabby pulling fifty hour shifts, to even get her spaceworthy again. Repairing the FTL drive had taken as much time, with a good deal more crying jags and breakdowns.

“Place your hand on the scanner,” the VI’s voice was a jolt; he had gotten lost in his memory.

“Sure?” He clumsily fit his hand over the human-sized scanner and waited while the gears turned some more.

“Biological imprint accepted. Welcome, Garrus Vakarian.”

Hannah gave him a tiny, encouraging wave from her spot in the hallway as the door slid open. Bemused, exhausted, and in no shape for a surprise, he stepped through the door.

 _This is a surprise? Just looks like a... hospital..._ The walls were white, and the afternoon sun was streaming through an open window. He could vaguely hear birds trilling outside. The reality of what he was seeing didn’t hit him for a few minutes. Not until his eyes focused on the bed on the far side of the room, and the fact that it was very much occupied.

Cursing himself for leaving his visor on the ship, Garrus took two steps closer and stopped, a shudder working its way through his body. He took a deep breath, nose slits twitching. A faint medical smell permeated the room, most likely disinfectant. The sheets had been washed and pressed the day before—he could smell the laundry house on them still. But what sent his heart racing was the subtle smell of coffee and salt and ozone that had always marked Shepard in his mind.

_Is…?_

He took another trembling step forward, close enough to see the rise and fall of the patient’s chest. Their face was burrowed into the sheets, but fanned across the pillow were short, dark curls, a rich shade of red-brown he’d last seen twined around his talons.

_That...?_

“Shepard?” he breathed, a painful weight in his chest. Despite all his talks with Chakwas, despite Ashley’s assurances and Tali’s careful optimism, despite Joker’s unwavering faith that death couldn’t hold her, he’d been so afraid to believe she was alive. The last time she’d died, he’d run to Omega to lose himself. This time, he’d only had the Normandy and a skeleton crew mourning her as much as he had; there had been nowhere to turn that didn’t haunt him with a dozen ghosts of her.

At best, he’d expected to find her body and give the crew closure at last, closure he’d denied them by clinging to her memory. At worst, she’d be listed as still missing, the need for recovery and repairing civilization more important than spending bodies and hours digging through piles of corpses and rubble.

Garrus reached out and tugged the sheet down with a trembling talon. He had to see her face. He _had_ to.

_Spirits, please._

His breath left him in a rush as he saw the freckles across her cheeks, the scar through her brow. His throat closed as he stood and watched her breathe for a few moments. If turians could cry, he would have been a sobbing mess making a fool of himself while the woman he’d waited for, had followed into hell and back more times than he cared to count, had almost stopped believing in, slept quietly through his breakdown.

#

The trill of his subvocals changed, took on the soft tone he’d woken her up with every morning they’d been together, and his heart squeezed when she hummed in response. _I like waking up to you talking to me like that_ , she’d told him after Menae, after she’d thoroughly reminded him about reunion protocols. _It almost sounds like singing._ He’d never quite had the quads to tell her what that tone meant, that it was reserved for bondmates. Each call was subtly different, but always embodied their name somehow, mixed with memories and hope and unspeakable words of love. A song was a good enough, if simple, explanation.  
  
Before a solid minute had passed, a pair of thulium-gray eyes fluttered open, glassy at first before they focused on him.  
  
“I keep dreaming about you,” she whispered, lips thinning to almost nothing. “Hearing that song.” A tear fell, trickling down until it fell from the tip of her nose onto the back of his glove, where he still carried her dogtag. Her promise. “Are you really here this time?”  
  
His heart broke at the thought of her suffering alone, and he leaned his forehead down to rest on hers, her scent filling him with each breath; it had been stamped across his mind long before he’d even known he was hers. He pressed the metal—worn almost smooth from his handling it on the long journey back to Earth—into her palm with a kiss. “I’m really here.”  
  
“I love you,” she breathed, and he could feel the tremble of her body as she sat up and pressed as much of herself against him as the bed would allow; the bed creaked in protest as he sat on it and pulled her into his lap, burying his face against her neck. “Oh, God, Garrus I was so afraid you were dead.”  
  
“Almost was,” he mumbled into her skin. “Chakwas had to thump me a few times for you.”  
  
She laughed—actually _laughed_ —and Garrus thought he’d never heard a single sound as sweet. “I’ll have to thank her for that, then.” She pulled back to look at him, one brow cocked over her eye and spirits, was that a familiar look. “Did you deserve it?”  
  
“Entirely.”  
  
Shepard laid back and scooted against the wall, tugging him after her. The bed was far too narrow to accommodate them both, even as diminished as his frame was; the metal of her prosthetic leg pushed against his spur uncomfortably where it wedged between his knees, she’d already smacked him twice with an elbow, and his talons had _somehow_ gotten the short length of her hair tangled. But as he felt the rise and fall of her chest against his, he couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn.  
  
“Are you tired?” Shepard murmured, running her fingers down his mandible. The caress felt so good, like a balm on exhausted muscles or salve on cracked plates, he leaned into her touch until their foreheads rested together. “You look tired.”  
  
“As much as I want to say no, I could probably sleep even if Harbinger itself were bearing down on us,” he admitted. When she chuckled and yawned, burrowing even closer to him, he thought about telling her to get some rest. As if having heard his thoughts, her head came up and pinned him with a cold, gray glare.  
  
“If you try to get out of this bed, I will _shoot you_ myself. I might even hit you, if Hackett would let me have my damn gun.” Her voice was as firm as he’d ever heard, if half an octave lower, but her eyes belied her insecurity. “I know I’m broken and all, but you’re stuck with me now.”  
  
As if that’s a burden. “Spirits, I love you,” he said helplessly. There was a purr to his voice, even as rough and exhausted as it was, that had her relaxing against him again. “You’re the only reason my heart is still beating, Shepard.”  
  
When she looped a scarred arm around him and carefully brushed her lips across his mouth, the rest of the words crowding his throat—words he’d spent a very long eight and a half months trying to perfect— were forgotten in favor of the miracle in front of him.

#

When Hannah Shepard opened the door a full twenty-seven hours later, dusk was beginning to fall across London with grace. She wasn’t surprised that Iolana was still sleeping; even while recovering, her sleep had been fitful and plagued with nightmares she never wanted to discuss. Hannah wasn’t cruel enough to her daughter to make her recount what undermined her rest, so she slapped cheer on her face and tried to ease both their minds every chance she got.

When he’d walked into the laundromat with Steven, Garrus had looked, quite literally, dead on his feet. The subtle charcoal color of his plates had almost disappeared, leaving only the silver-blue sheen of the trace thulium, and the faintest hint of colony paint. The clothes that he’d been wearing were loose, and had seen some clumsy hand-sewing attempts to make them fit without any embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions; Hannah had spent a good couple of hours with Karin Chakwas hearing about how he’d appointed himself de-facto leader and nearly starved himself a few times doing so.

So she wasn’t surprised by his long sleep, either.

What did surprise—and warm—her was that Iolana and Garrus had somehow managed to twine themselves together on the single-width medical bed. Her daughter’s back was flush with the wall with her legs shoved between Garrus’, ankles hooked around one of his like an anchor. Garrus himself had one arm tightly wound around her, with the other almost vertical to the wall in a way that was sure to cut off circulation, and the back ridge of his cowl was wedged under the pillow she’d dragged up sometime in the night; the corner of it covered half of an eye and most of his nose slits, but didn’t seem to hamper his breathing.

Even as she watched, Iolana stiffened and made a small, distressed noise; Garrus responded by defying the laws of physics and curling himself closer to her, subvocals crooning without ever fully waking up. With a sigh, she relaxed back into a deeper sleep, nuzzling her face between the pillow and his neck.

 _That’s just too damn cute,_ Hannah thought as she chuckled and opened her comm. She tapped out a text, not wanting to disturb them. _They’re still sleeping_.

 _But it’s my day to visit Shepard. Damn turians_. Even without his voice, Grunt sounded sulky, and Hannah had to choke on a laugh before she woke the sleepers up, turning and sealing the door behind her. She punched up his channel and grinned at him as his face filled her omni-screen, grumpy and far scalier than she’d ever imagined her daughter’s progeny would be.

“Why don’t you come up to my office and I’ll make you some noodles,” Hannah said. “Surely visiting your grandmother is almost as good?”

Grunt narrowed his eyes, considering. Hannah counted ten seconds before he nodded. “Extra spicy?” he finally asked.

“Only the best for my first grandson,” she replied with a laugh. “We’ll give them another day to rest before I let you pounce on them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two different movie references in this chapter. Internet points to the first person who can find them!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to branch out and explore other characters. These will probably be fairly short, vignette-like chapters. Just snapshots, really. Here's to hoping I'm not too rusty! :D


End file.
